


tethered and tied (there's nowhere to hide from me)

by doctor_whatthefuck



Series: all mine [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Horror, Captivity, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Forced Orgasm, Forced Pregnancy, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Oviposition, Trans Male Character, Web Martin Blackwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:13:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22815208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor_whatthefuck/pseuds/doctor_whatthefuck
Summary: Jon is trapped, far from his Archives, by an agent of the Web and by his own body.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: all mine [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1650154
Comments: 20
Kudos: 230





	tethered and tied (there's nowhere to hide from me)

**Author's Note:**

> i blame the do not archive discord. this fic is real, real bad, please read the tags  
> beta'd by the_ragnarok. please, go check out their tma fics, they're a fantastic writer  
> disclaimer: author is a trans guy  
> title from all mine by portishead

Jon clutches the doorframe and tries desperately to haul himself upright. It’s no good – no matter how much strength desperation lends him, his legs are still weak as wet cardboard. A lingering effect of the venom, perhaps, or maybe just shock and the…intensity of what  _ happened _ to him last night.

And, of course, there’s… _ it  _ to contend with.

He doesn’t want to name it, the awful moving weight inside him, shifting whenever he does and throwing off his balance. He’s thankful, so thankful, that he’s been left with blankets he can drape around himself, as if by hiding it from his eyes he can pretend this isn’t happening, that nothing’s wrong. That his body is still his own, and not a…no, God, he can’t think about it.

He just has to get away, that’s all. He can figure the rest out later.

Jon tries again to get his legs under him and pull himself to standing. This time he comes close, gets one foot planted and pushes upwards – but his knee gives out before he’s any more than crouched and he’s back on the floor. One of his hands clamps hard over his mouth to stifle the noise that the jolting  _ movement _ of the things distending his uterus shocks out of him.

Fine, no walking, then. He can still crawl. After all, there’s no reason for him to have any more pride.

So Jon crawls, metre by shaking metre, wincing hard at how his belly sways, a terrible dragging discomfort. A pathetic little part of him wants to just collapse, curl around his burden and stay as still as possible, just to make all the new and horrifying sensations  _ stop _ . Maybe he’ll do that later, find a hole to crawl into and lie motionless, rest his screaming body and quiet his screaming mind.

He makes it to the front door and is relieved to find it unlocked. Evidently they’re far enough into the countryside that his captor isn’t worried about potential intruders. Indeed, when he manages to get the door open, the clean, cool air of the English countryside practically smacks him in the face. Everything smells green and damp and it should be refreshing, but Jon finds himself oddly repulsed. He’s an urbanite by nature, and he’s heard enough of his captor’s chatter to know this is  _ his _ territory, the place he feels most comfortable. Jon is out of his depth and it would make him sick, if he weren’t so bone-deeply sick already.

No matter; he couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t at least  _ try _ , no matter what his chances are.

And his chances are low, Jon knows that. For God’s sake, he can barely move, can’t so much as walk. He’s naked except for blankets, and even if he knew where the hell this house is, he can’t exactly crawl into the nearest town and ask a local for help. Maybe he could pretend a pregnancy for a little while – the thought makes him even sicker, dysphoria choking him like a vice in a way that’s been strangely absent until now, the situation too unreal to be at all gendered – but that would only last until the…texture…of the swelling in his belly was noticed. After that – well, if the various cover-ups he’s been witness to in his time at the Institute are anything to go by, he’d probably be better off staying put.

But he  _ can’t _ – he can’t just lie there on that disgustingly comfortable mattress and wait for his tormentor to come back and fuss over him, soft touches and soft words. More venom, or those sticky silver threads lacing into his mind again, making the inside of his head soft as cotton wool and just as useless. He can’t just  _ submit _ .

He gets past the boundary of the property, past the empty driveway – his captor left to go to the shops, of all places – through a field and down a bank to a stream. His blankets are muddy, his limbs soaked with the aftermath of last night’s rainfall, his body aching with the strain of so much movement. He gets that far before he hears someone behind him, scrambling down the bank, calling out his name.

Jon can’t run, he really can’t, but he  _ tries _ . A last frantic, shameful, agonising scramble to get away, even as the running footsteps get louder, even as broad arms lock around his chest and he’s dragged off the ground.

For a moment, there’s so much movement, so much jolting, twisting motion, that Jon’s vision whites out, overwhelmed. By the time it clears he’s held tight, cradled to a soft, warm chest in a parody of a bridal carry. He wants to struggle, to bite and claw until he has to be released, but no matter how gently he’s being moved, the swaying is bad enough to make him groan and reconsider.

“Jon, sweetheart,” Martin murmurs above him, lips brushing against his temple. “Please, don’t  _ do _ that, I was so worried, I thought I’d lost you – please, you can’t do that to me, okay? I need you to be safe.”

A laugh slips out of Jon’s mouth, bitter and bleak. God, he’s exhausted, he can’t even raise his head from where Martin has tucked it against his neck. He has the most ridiculous urge to bite down, but he already knows that won’t do anything but make Martin sad. His former assistant is a lot more durable these days.

“Of course,” he grinds out against Martin’s skin, “can’t have your incubator endangering his precious cargo.”

Even after everything, all the horrific things he’s suffered at the hands of this man, the little gasp of pain Martin lets out still makes some small piece of Jon cringe, ache to take it back. “That’s not – you’re not just an  _ incubator _ to me, Jon, Jesus!” His voice softens, dripping with affection that makes Jon’s stomach turn. “You’re carrying my  _ babies _ . That’s… you don’t even know how much that means to me.” Another gentle brush of lips against his forehead, and Jon just doesn’t have the energy to flinch away.

He’s silent as they make their way back to the house, except for the whimpers that shake loose as his battered body is jostled – and those he only allows because Martin winces, every time. Small victories, barely victories at all, but he’ll take what he can get.

As they cross the threshold of the little farmhouse that’s become his prison, Jon can’t help but flinch, choking down a horrified little sob. Of course he’d known he couldn’t escape, he’d never even expected to get as far as he had, but it still  _ hurts _ to have his freedom denied once more. Martin hushes him, croons soft assurances of warmth and comfort and safety, and Jon tries very hard not to burst into tears.

He expects to be carried into the downstairs room he was left in the first time, the mattress on the floor that he’d been able to crawl from. But his heart sinks as Martin steps over the discarded shopping bags in the hallway and carries him up the stairs, into a disgustingly cosy bedroom. The bed is a proper frame, raised well off the floor – there’s no way in hell he’s going to be able to get down from that without help, not for hours at least.

“How will I go to the bathroom?” he asks desperately as he’s lowered onto the mattress – just as comfortable as the one downstairs. He tries to keep the panic out of his voice, but it slips in anyway.

Martin sighs deeply, carefully unwrapping the muddy blankets Jon had covered himself with. The bedroom has been heated until it’s almost too warm, but Jon still shivers as his naked body is bared, squeezing his eyes shut. “Just call me, I’ll help you.”

Jon feels his lips twist into a bitter little smile. “Of course. What’s one more indignity?”

“I’m sorry,” Martin tells him, and his voice  _ aches _ with sincerity that cuts Jon all the worse, because he knows Martin isn’t sorry about any of the violations he’s inflicted. No, he’s just sorry that Jon is  _ upset _ about them. “But I need to be sure you won’t try and leave again. God, you could have been hurt, Jon. You’re not in a fit state to go anywhere right now.” He brushes a strand of hair off Jon’s face, horrifically tender. “I can’t look after you if you won’t let me, sweetheart.”

How long had it been since anyone had touched him, before this? Jon doesn’t know, but he can’t entirely blame Martin’s venom for how much he wants to lean into the gentle, loving touches. Martin cleans his knees and legs, disinfects the scratches and scrapes that now litter his body, and Jon surrenders to it. His belly is a solid, distended weight to curl around, pinning him to the bed as effectively as any restraints, and he has no more energy left to fight this.

“I won’t, you know,” he murmurs when Martin is finished, has moved to tidy his medical supplies away. “Let you take care of me. I’m not going to let you forget what you’re doing to me.”

Martin sighs, deep and sorrowful. “That’s fine, Jon, I understand. This has got to be a lot to process.” It’s so ridiculous that Jon almost bursts out laughing, but Martin’s hand coming to rest on his thigh stops him cold. “You’ll get there in the end, I’m sure of it.”

Martin’s hands are so gentle with him as they nudge his legs apart, one slipping between them to rest warm and large against –

“Wait,” Jon gasps out, hating how scared, how  _ weak _ he sounds. “You can’t – Martin, you can’t put more in, I’ll – please, please –”

“Shhh,” Martin whispers, leaning over him to pepper his face with kisses, the hand not pressing between his thighs running down his arm in what Jon suspects is meant to be a soothing gesture. “I’m not going to give you any more babies, love, you’re already at your limit. I’d never hurt you like that. I just want to make you feel good, that’s all.”

The solid base of Martin’s thumb presses up against his cock, and Jon clamps his mouth shut. God, he’s not used to this, the speed and sheer intensity of the heat that pools between his legs. He’s got no defence against it. A side effect of the venom, it must be, because the alternative is that something about his  _ situation _ is arousing him, and he cannot accept that.

Martin presses his hand harder against Jon’s crotch, rocking it slightly, and his hips twitch into it before he can stop himself. It feels so  _ good _ , a warm and blooming friction, and he’s so very tired. Frankly, the only thing restraining him from betraying himself is how uncomfortable it is to move, the…eggs, Christ, the eggs inside him making their presence known with every shudder, every gasp. There’s only three of them in there but they feel huge, overwhelming, filling him completely.

“Don’t,” he whispers with the last of his willpower.

Martin just hushes him and begins to rock his hand more forcefully, grinding it up against Jon’s swollen cock. Jon’s eyes flutter closed without his say-so, overwhelmed by pressure and the wet heat of his arousal. When his hips jerk he can’t hold back a groan, discomfort and pleasure bleeding together. God, he feels so  _ heavy _ , so  _ stretched _ , weighed down and stuffed to bursting.

“Stay still, love,” Martin coos, pressing the words into his skin. “Let me give you what you need, that’s it.” Thank God for small mercies – there’s no compulsion in his words, no razor-wire silken threads keeping him bound. Not moving is his decision to make, and Jon is grateful for that if nothing else.

Of course, Martin keeps talking as he rubs against him. “You’re so lovely like this, do you know that? Gorgeous, all full up, it’s like you’re glowing. And you’re being so good for me, letting me make you feel good. So perfect, my Jon.” As if Jon is doing anything worthy of praise, as if he’s currently capable of doing anything but lying still and taking whatever Martin gives him. As if he has any real, actual choice in the matter.

Jon is sweating now, skin heating up, and Martin won’t  _ stop _ , keeps pushing heat and pleasure onto Jon until he breaks. He shakes his way through the first throes of the orgasm, teeth clenched as some awful alchemy of hormones and nerve responses turns the jostling of the eggs inside him into twisted, liquid pleasure.

Jon comes for what feels like a very long time.

When he’s finally sensible again, Martin is cleaning him up with careful swipes of a damp flannel. He smiles when Jon opens his eyes, sweet and sunny and wholly loving, and Jon wants to die with shame. All that bollocks about not letting Martin  _ take care of him _ , and hadn’t it been easy for Martin, in the end, to do just that? Christ, but he’s pathetic. 

He closes his eyes and keeps them closed until Martin gets into bed behind him, moving ever so carefully. At least he’s positioned facing the wall, so he can stare blankly at faded green wallpaper as he recovers himself.

“Are you okay?” Martin asks, solicitous as any good partner, and Jon clenches his teeth against rage that doesn’t come. Apparently he’s too tired to be angry anymore.

“Will you let me go?” he asks instead. “When I don’t have your…babies growing inside me?” Assuming he survives their leaving him, that is, but it seems likely that he will. Martin’s got some fairly concrete boundaries for what he will and won’t do to Jon, and death is very much on the other side of them.

Another deep sigh, and Martin presses a soft kiss to his cheek. “They’re not just mine, sweetheart. They’re yours as well – not genetically, maybe, but you’re still carrying them and that counts. And they’re not going to grow up like we did.” Martin’s voice takes on a dreamlike quality, and Jon doesn’t have to look at him to know a soft, sappy smile is curving over his lips. “They’ll have a beautiful place to live, no responsibilities they’re too young to bear, and two loving dads.”

An icy thrill of terror shoots through Jon’s sternum at those last words, and he can’t keep the high, thready sound of it from his voice. “Loving? Seriously? Martin, you can’t be so delusional as to think I could ever love the product of  _ this _ .”

He’s expecting anger – hoping for anger, if he’s honest. But Martin just presses closer, curving himself around Jon’s curled-up body. “I’m not delusional – don’t forget, I’ve seen you around kids before. You’ve always sort of wanted to be a dad, right? But you convinced yourself you wouldn’t be good at it, it wasn’t the right time, you couldn’t find the right partner? I know, I thought the same things.” One hand slips down to rest lightly on Jon’s belly, a gentle, warm pressure that he wants desperately to hate. “Don’t worry, love, we’ll do this right, and we’ll do it together. A perfect family, all our own.”

Jon squeezes his eyes closed as hard as possible, pressing his face into the pillow and trying desperately to convince himself that Martin’s wrong. That he won’t ever come to want this impossible fantasy life Martin has dreamed up – because it is impossible, it has to be. He can’t imagine ever breaking so completely. 

It would be very easy to relax into the bed – it’s not as if he can do anything else, stuffed full as he is. To melt into Martin’s arms, let precious physical contact with someone he…had cared for, or had begun to care for, once upon a time, soothe his aching soul. But Jon is nothing if not stubborn, and he keeps his muscles clenched and his eyes open for the rest of the night. 


End file.
